Out of the Partridge Canon
by willman85
Summary: Alan Partridge's personal diary written during his stay at Linton Travel Tavern in 1997.


**1997 September  
Wednesday 10**

Belter of a phone-in today: "Which is the best shape of shortbread? 'Finger', 'round', or 'round with the grooves like pizza slices but actually impossible to snap apart neatly'?" Would you believe it, 'finger' won by a convincing 100% margin! It's lucky the man phoned in or nobody would've won.

Oh, cream crackers! I've just remembered that the whole point of this morning's competition - aside from getting rid of the biscuit tin I got from Sue Ryder (the shop-cum-charity-shop - not a lady named Sue Ryder) - was to put my very neat suggestion out there. I.e. For shortbread multipacks to include a mini pizza cutter. Whatever, Lees' of Scotland probably weren't even listening. I'm sure they have bigger fish to fry. Or, rather, bigger _shortbread_ to _bake_. Actually that doesn't work. The bigger the piece, the greater _the need_ for a tool for convenient breakage. Do Lees' even make shortbread? I suppose I better ask a real Scotchman.

Dominik Diamond is a Scotch. I recall when I met him a couple of years ago at Alan Barton's (of Black Lace) funeral. He was being rather facetious at what was otherwise a very sombre affair. Dene Michael (of Black Lace) scorned him with a look of a thousand Victorian matriarches. Even Timmy Mallet shook his head. But all that's dead and buried, like Alan Barton's body. Young Mr. Diamond is a real up-and-coming chap. When I come across him again I'll ask him the aforementioned; and, as a topper, if he prefers fingers (the sensible man's choice).

 **1997 September**  
 **Friday 12**

Today I was meeting Bill Oddie at Texas Homecare for a Lads' Shopping Trip. He prefers Texas to the Do It All (formerly a Focus DIY) even though it's further out. By the time I got there, Bill had finished.

"Don't you need to get anything Alan?"

I grabbed a bag of fuses (I don't even know what spec) and we went to "check it out". As we walked and chatted I stopped dead.

"Whoops. Mea culpa", Bill muttered.

My ears were pricked. Bill had just made a very cavalier remark about how he was going to bring binoculars to Sue Cook's party so he could look at Alan Titchmarsh's wife's breasts. That's right. Sue Cook was having a party and forgot to tell me.

'What have I ... what have I ... what have I done to deserve this?' I was thinking. I was incredulous and my fist was positively hulking with rage. You could say I was The Incredulous Hulk.

"Alan Titchmarsh's wife! WHO'S SHE?!" I yelled into the receiver to Sue.

"But Alan", started Sue, "it's only a _low-key_ thing. She's there to make up the numbers for cribbage - with Moira Stewart, Lynda Bellingham, and Lenny Henry.

Once I heard this star-studded cast of game-players, I knew for sure that she was telling the truth.

"You can come Alan", she finally said. "Just don't talk to the amputee girl".

What? Was that the one-armed young lady who'd been a guest on Crimewatch a couple years back? If so, Sue was in luck. I already _had_ spoken to the one-armed-girl. I'd even written her a letter. But she never wrote back.

I'd met her at BBC Television Centre during the tail-end of Knowing Me, Knowing You. I tried to explain to her that there wasn't a violent criminal around every corner ... not least because the (BBC TV Centre's) corridors were _circular_! The joke went over her head. I then assured her that just because she was recently victim to violent crime, it didn't mean that all men were rapists and murderers.

That very weekend I fatally shot a guest live on air.

Apropos the present: The chances that I'd be called upon to make a speech at Sue's party will be minimal. Never-the-less I've been re-reading Nigel Rees' book of humorous graffiti for witty repartee. I've thus far shortlisted three picks:

'I used to use clichés all the time. But now I avoid them like the plague!'  
'Donald Duck - he's not all he's quacked up to be!'  
'I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous!'

In order to slip these in I'd have to try and steer the conversation to Disney; otherwise I know for a fact that George Best is ambidextrous. I could say I met him in my days as sports presenter. While already impressed with this not-implausible mistruth, anyone within earshot will be on qui vive for my consequent zinger. Career grand slam! Nothing can go wrong.

 **1997 September**  
 **Sunday 14**

What the heck is happening to me? This has got to be the worst programme idea I've ever had:

 _Remote Control BattleBots_ \- Teams of robotics hobbyists battle out their homemade toys in an arena. What was I thinking?! Worst still, I now realise I'd made a faux pas in front of Philippa Forrester when I let slip the embryonic idea. She had the gall to go off and snicker at me to her agent! And to think I forgave her for mistakenly taking my drink! I knew it was mine because there was a red lip print on the rim, from the blood of the split-lip I'd caught when Tommy Walsh thumped me. (Another honest mistake; Titchmarsh and I have similar first names. We're easily confused through typical soirée chatter.)

Still, every cloud has a silver lining as Roy Walker once said (on an episode of Catchphrase) and all this robot-brain-storming has inspired me to ask my assistant to investigate who owns the rights to K-9, the robot dog from Doctor Who. (Doctor) Who knows, there may be something in it.

 _A Day At the Airport_ \- A fly-on-the-wall documentary about the goings-on ... no. Christ this is bad, I could go on ad nauseam about why it'd never be watched. (Maybe if I change the setting to a train station, retitled it _Waterloo! Narrated by Alan Partridge_ and it might just be something that could air on UK Horizons.)

I've had worse ideas. When I was bedridden with fever for three days, I had what I'd thought was an epiphany. My scribblings in the morning had read thus: "What about a competitive cake-baking show?" It causes me to laugh, cringe, then laugh some more. (Then cringe again.) I only didn't mention it before because I was so ashamed. But I appreciate now just how much of a Benylin delirium (or "Benylirium") I was really in. I wasn't me. I can laugh again now (after my prior cringe).

Again, from the proverbial silver cloud rises the phoenix of ... a good TV format idea:

 _Let Them Sponge Cake_ \- Jennie Bond tours Britain's prisons and young offender institutes, donating inmates homebaked treats. I briefly considered Dawn French and Vanessa Feltz for various reasons, but ruled them out for the glorious expense in excelsis of their mammoth fees. (N.B: It is a bit like the _Cooking In Prison_ idea I already pitched to Tony Hayers. The basic premise is solid. I think if I just present it to him in a fresh light, maybe he won't remember he's heard it. Or that I shunted his face with Stilton.)

 **1997 September**  
 **Thursday 18**

Only three people in the entire world know about my battles with chocolate. I, Partridge (obviously); Sue Cook (obviously); and Michael, Linton Travel Tavern monkey-butler. To be clear, Michael's not actually a butler. I'm not sure precisely what his job title is, but he is loyal and personable (when he makes an effort to let me understand him) and he'd make a good butler. I Can't Believe [He's] Not Butler!

Yesterday was the THIRD DAY IN A ROW I've bought a prism of travel-size Toblerone and eaten them all over the course of an evening. And today I'm very likely to go out and do the same thing AGAIN. (They're reduced at John Menzies.) As Sue Cook always says, "When you start suffering withdrawal symptoms, that's when a habit becomes an addiction". She neglected to mention _tolerance_ (in my case half-a-packet-a-day no longer suffices for my cravings, or "does it for me"), but I could go on about Sue's negligences ad infinitum.

I realised I needed to think about seeking help after I lost out on a corporate gig with Bradford & Bingley to Norman Pace. (Of Hale & Pace.) I'd underperformed at the meeting with the Bradford & Bingley bigwigs (or "B&BBW"s) because I had Toblerones in my head (not literally, that would be a health hazard). I also just didn't want to do it. But good luck to the chap, his career has yet to peak - I foresee his star rising to Jim Davidson levels. (Just as an example! Obviously Jim Davidson I cannot condone as a human being for his choice to be under the employ of ITV. What has the BBC ever done worthy of such spurn?)

Note to self: Remember to ask Lynn what The Woolwich said about my proposal for a potentially long and auspicious working relationship.

 **1997 September**  
 **Monday 22**

Today I received a hamper from Fern Britton.

"Wey aye Mister Partridge", Michael said, bringing the package to my room. "Canny that, like".

Except it was _un_ -canny. (Not "uncanny"; rather it was _not_ -"canny", as in the Geordie sense.) It was a culinary surprise, yes, though not a pleasant one. My multi-month sojourn (or "stay") at Linton Travel Tavern had thus far yielded no culinary surprises (even a thrice-weekly rotating menu can get somewhat predictable); but what in the heck am I supposed to do with dried pasta, balsamic vinegar, and a set of steak knives in a hotel room? I suppose you could boil the pasta using the tea-and-coffee-making-facilities, but I would stop short at heating up the sauce in a Corby Trouser Press. I did. (It's only the Corby 3000 series; I wager the Corby Executive would not "spoil the broth", or _sauce._ )

I'll give the steak knives to Carol as a housewarming present. Technically it is _my_ house (and she never did properly move out), but with her and her sex partner living there now it seems churlish not to gratify her my small onus. That's if she doesn't take the knives to mean I want to horrifically murder them both, like something from an Alfred Hancock film. The balsamic vinegar I'll give to Dave Clifton. I'll tell him it's a dessert wine. The prank won't stretch much further than his reading of the label - but I'm sure I won't forget the look of disappointment on his face. I'm laughing now just thinking about it.

It's all my assistant's fault.

"But Alan, when you gave me the memo I did ask who 'F.B.' was".

She ruddy well didn't. Transparently attempting to acquit herself she fired back this gem verbatim: "I left a message for you at reception, and you didn't get back to me", then she claimed she couldn't get through to either of my business phones. (I'm upgrading from an Ericsson GH337 to a Motorola StarTAC. It has a very futuristic name and high-tech clamshell design, I can imagine Captain Kirk calling his doctor on that. It has a silent vibration alert function, which can be very irritating when you miss an urgent call - unless it's from Bill Oddie - and I don't see that ever catching on.)

She did know I was writing a letter to an alluring female BBC presenter, I told Lynn as much to her aged face, ipso facto how could she mix up Fiona Bruce with Fern Britton?! One of whom presented such pieces of televisual history as Diana: The Nation's Farewell, and Election 97. The other does Ready Steady Cook. It doesn't take a rocket genius to work out who I'd have for dinner.

An immeasurable load of my time was wasted on said letter to the sexy sophisticated Fiona Bruce. I pored my load over it. Very nearly I pulled an all-nighter - a tough decision to make when you have a show to do at 4.30am.

I've got to stop abbreviating people's names. This is just like that time I faxed Anneka Rice a congratulations on her new baby. Then _Anne Robinson_ called me back genuinely panicking that she'd birthed a child in one of her frequent blackouts. Maybe I'll gift the balsamic vinegar to Anne instead, as a sort of wino-equivalent nicotine patch. Obviously I won't tell her it's a dessert wine - she'd very likely have me on Watchdog.


End file.
